


Never, but often

by radhaj



Category: L'Arc~en~Ciel
Genre: Band Fic, M/M, Male Slash, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-27
Updated: 2013-03-27
Packaged: 2017-12-06 16:39:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/737842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/radhaj/pseuds/radhaj
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They'll always try to stay apart</p>
            </blockquote>





	Never, but often

_We're too different,_ my mind whispers time and time again, _it wouldn't work, it wouldn't have **ever** worked._  
  
Pursuing anything would have been foolish, not to mention a virtual suicide of everything we've achieved. I don't know what people think about us sometimes, but I know how we really are. I know his serious silence is not pretended, my willingness to make a fool of myself something I've been born with. I see his disgusted glares when I dare include him in some unplanned self-mocking spree on a TV Show and make **him** look bad (sillier than he's comfortable with) as well. I notice when he punishes me by keeping silent or giving far too snippish answers to the host afterward. He's not really that proud, I'm not really that stupid, but his idea of a perfect public image means there should not be a blemish on it, mine revolts against any hint of snobbishness.  
  
We clash every minute of our lives that we're not playing music, and even our truce on the stage is no longer as given as it used to be. The first time he didn't immediately approve of a composition I brought in I barely noticed it, but now he lets his doubts be seen more clearly. He no longer brings some of the songs he wants to perform before me at all. Our rare exchanges during MCs morphed from flirtatious, friendly banter to exchanges of very well hidden biting undertones. We're the only ones aware of it right now, and that's how we intend to keep it. But while I'm certain it won't ever get to a point where it would threaten the integrity of he band, I sometimes wonder what kinds of its damage I'm overlooking.  
  
 _It's not viable. It couldn't ever happen. A relationship would break whatever balance that there is left between us, bringing our careers down in a loud, scandalous rubble around the shaky foundations of our private world._  
  
It would be so much easier if we could just agree to ignore each other. Hatred would be too much, it's neither wanted nor needed. We're different, but we're not intolerant. We've been dealing with each others quirks for years now, rejoicing when some disappeared with passing time, hiding groans when new, even less welcome ones replaced them. We made compromises, with ourselves even more often than with each other.  
  
But we couldn't ignore each other. Because while we could get used to our differences, we could never forget the similarities and the attraction.  
 __  
Forget what **other** people think. It would only bring pain to you. You'd destroy yourself. You don't need it. Neither does he.   
  
Sometimes, I started to wonder how much of those differences were real, and how much they were enlarged by both of our desperate need to find something, anything to fault the other with. Just how much did we play on the traits we knew the other didn't like just to give each other a way to distance ourselves? And when that no longer works, is no longer enough to keep us apart, we find excuses to take breaks. A year, a month, a two days vacation to visit family. Hiatus. Three years this time.  
  
The longer we're apart, the harder the crash is when we're finally pulled back together. We both know it but we desperately want to forget it when searching for a way out, and it only begins to weight on our minds when the meeting actually happens. Even things like greeting one another become complicated then.  
  
"Tetsuya," his voice is mocking. He appreciates the sentiments behind the name change better than anyone, and yet he's been completely unable to take it as seriously as he probably himself wants to. Disgust at himself for that shows up on his face for a second before he shakes it off, other people entering the practice studio behind him, making him tense up. The mask that he never took off is yet again glued more firmly on his face.  
  
"Leader," he corrects himself with something more familiar and easy. The other people pull us apart after that, with their questions, their suggestions and words, words, **words.** Our eyes still linger for a while but then the suggested playlist is shoved in front of me and then we rehearse, and there is music and unfortunately, that always melts the distance in a flash.  
  
"Tet...chan..." he's moaning now and writhing beneath me, because we did crash. We gravitated to each other again and now our naked bodies are crushed together as closely as at all possible, and differences and similarities don't matter at all, melted away by the dripping sweat and raw desire.  
 __  
It would be easier to keep the reasons to stay away from this in my sight if he were not what I always wanted and needed.  
  
The floor is slippery and his body slides away a bit with every thrust until finally there's an amp behind him and the leverage that comes with the heavy object. It's easier now to keep close and move in unison, but his arms are still tight around me, his fingers raking over my back. We're both moaning and gasping loudly, but thankfully the soundproof door is shut and locked. That has been my last sane act before we descended into this.  
  
And we're still falling. When we hit the bottom, though, we're together. As near as we ever have been. I see that tears are rising in the pools of his eyes, as understanding of what just happened and that there should never, ever be a repeat of it again comes back to him. It is always the same.  
  
"Stop that," I almost snap, "It's not worth grieving over it when we both know it **will** happen again."  
  
That makes the tears disappear and now he's glaring, pushing me off of himself to gather his clothes and find some tissues to clean up.  
  
"I hate you!" he says, while he's buttoning his pants in a sudden rush, but his hands are shaky and he has to slow down, "I'd do anything to say it and mean it for real one day," the finish is just a whisper but I understand it clearly as the same sentiments are twirling around in my own mind at the same time.  
  
And then it is all over. We're going home. And as I lie down beside my young and beautiful wife, whom I love but who, in the end, is just another of my attempts to put a stop between everything that is him and me, I have a fleeting thought of what it might feel like to have him there instead of her.  
  
The guilt surfaces together with bile in my throat, and soon I'm hunched over my pristine clean toilet, sweat rolling off my forehead, dry heaves of my body loud enough to summon my wife to the bathroom. She's worried, and she's rubbing my back in comforting circles and asking what is happening and why, and does not even suspect that the marks his fingers left are still burning under my shirt and her innocent touches. I shrug an "I don't know" and hunch over even more.  
  
She does not deserve this. But what did **we** do to deserve being stuck in this limbo?  
  
We're too different. We're too similar. It doesn't matter. We understand our differences and similarities better than anyone else. We understand each other. That is what damns us into this. Into forever wanting, but knowing it will never be anything lasting. That is not allowed for us. Or rather, we'll never allow it for ourselves.  
  
 _We're not committing suicide, but we_ **are** slowly killing each other.


End file.
